


Colors

by GallicGalaxy



Series: Little Whispers (Post-asylum Oneshots) [4]
Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Post-Canon, I literally wrote this in like an hour, I was going to play Fallout but instead I just did this, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, One Shot, Post-Asylum AU, Small songfic, Songfic, Trager is finally referred to by his first name
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-25
Updated: 2016-05-25
Packaged: 2018-06-10 15:10:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6962068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GallicGalaxy/pseuds/GallicGalaxy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>"You're only happy when your sorry head is filled with dope,</em><br/>I hope you live to see the day you're 28 years old."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Colors

**Author's Note:**

> Hey look I did a thing  
> I'd been meaning to write a little Outlast fic for this song since I first heard it pretty much  
> I was debating the entire thing, but instead I just did the chorus in a little one-shot. Something that's not Eddie/Waylon for once!  
> This is also the second Outlast Halsey songfic I've done; when will it end?
> 
> Song: Colors - Halsey

 

_Everything is blue:_

_His pills, his hands, his jeans,_

_And now I'm covered in the colors,_

_Pulled apart at the seams_

_And it's blue,_

 

There was the blue boy, standing outside at 8:30 p.m. The sky turned dark early in winter, and the nights were long and cold, but that didn't keep Miles from going outside.

He would put his coat on, the battered brown one he'd once worn nearly every day, and go outside and huddle up next to the 'designated smoking area' sign. He usually shivered like a half-drowned kitten, so much so that the smoke dancing from his lips would almost zigzag, highlighted by what little light pooled out from the front door of Snow Field Sanitarium.

He looked miserable.

But he did it every single night, even if it snowed.

He wasn't supposed to smoke in his room, or in Rick's room, or inside at all. He was one of approximately two smokers in the entire sanitarium, with the other being Frank Manera. Even the nurses and orderlies seemed to pity him, in a distant sort of way.

Eventually, Miles would stamp out his cigarette and come inside, still trembling from the cold. More than half the time, Rick would be waiting for him, and they would exchange unreadable expressions before heading back upstairs.

Tonight, Miles looked violently, agonizingly tired. Like a man who had been roaming sleeplessly for weeks before finding shelter.

“Miles, did you take your medicine tonight?” Rick asked. He had a tendency to cock his head at people when he spoke to them, angling the good side of his face in their direction. Miles kissed his mutilated mouth every damn morning, but Rick still tilted the good side of his face towards him anyway.

“Shit, I don't know.” Miles muttered, rubbing his hands as he tried to get blood flow to return to them. “Probably not.” He added as an afterthought. Rick followed him to the elevator, concern hovering silently behind his teeth.

He followed Miles back to his room. He could still hear him shivering the entire time.

Miles went straight into his bathroom and rifled around on the counter until he grabbed the long system of compartments that held his little blue tablets of happiness.

They didn't seem to make him much happier.

“No, I didn't.” Miles declared, grappling with the capsule for Thursday. “Shit, my hands are so fuckin' cold...” He swore, lifting his fingers to his mouth and puffing on them a few times. The last puff turned into a coughing fit.

Rick strode in concernedly, opening Miles' pill box with one of his long fingernails.

“Are you okay tonight, buddy?” He asked, in a strangely meek tone of voice.

“I don't know.” Miles whined. “Fucking _no_. I just wanna take my meds and go to bed.” He sighed deeply and ran his fingers through his hair a few times. Rick held a concerned stare as Miles laid his elbows on the counter, supporting himself on his hands.

Miles sighed again.

“There's good days and bad days.” Miles choked, sobbing a little. “And today's a bad day.”

Rick stroked Miles' hair a few times, letting him have his moment.

“Take your meds, sweetheart.” Rick murmured soothingly. “Take your meds and go to sleep.” He gently ran his spindly fingers over the back of Miles' hand, and it was colder than the frost outside. Miles raised his head with a deep breath.

“I fucked up my medication schedule.” He complained, trying to fish out his designated pill with his freezing fingers. He swore a few more times before he managed to get it into his hand successfully, and even more before he managed to swallow it.

 

_And it's blue..._

 

And he went to bed.

But not in his own room.

It was strange how strictly he obeyed the smoking rules, but how clearly he disregarded the fact that the wasn't supposed to sleep in anyone else's room.

Miles curled up with a groan, facing towards the window, without even taking off his coat. Rick went to bed in an old t-shirt and a pair of pajama pants, which were both about 3 sizes too big for him, and laid awake for a while reading by his bedside lamp. He normally would've been worried about Miles being unable to sleep, but he knew that that boy could sleep through a hurricane.

Sometimes it was just because he was a heavy sleeper, and other times it was the Other Thing.

The nurses probably knew about it. Everyone knew about it.

Rick knew about it because he'd seen the spotty bruises on Miles' thighs. He never went for the arms, at least not now. He wore too many short-sleeved shirts, and if he put the needle in his arm, someone would see the marks.

Everyone probably wondered where Miles kept getting it. Nobody knew.

If only the blue shards of sky, the don't-be-sad-anymore pills, were the only medicine he took.

 

_Everything is gray:_

_His hair, his smoke, his dreams,_

_And now he's so devoid of color,_

_He don't know what it means._

_And he's blue,_

 

There was the gray smile, the withered smile, half tooth and half flesh.

As soon as Miles woke up, earlier than he usually did (due to going to bed so early), he smiled, and Rick knew that today was going to be a good day. Miles' first expression of the day was like groundhog day – a prophetic signal, not always completely accurate, but if you believed in omens, a good indicator.

Miles wrapped his arm around Rick, nuzzling his ratty old nighttime shirt. He kissed the good side of Rick's lips, and an uncontrollable laugh jumped from them. It seemed like Miles' energy, the powerful vibrancy that thrashed him up and down every single day, rubbed off on the people around him. Or maybe just Rick.

But he swore he could feel it, the youth, the energy, the color. He was so full of emotion that none of it made sense, and he cried when he should've laughed and laughed when he should've cried. He tore blades out of razors and pressed the panic button and made Waylon sick and Rick feel like his guts were being torn out. He hurt himself. He didn't understand any of it.

But Rick was so empty. His emotions had all turned to ash, his heart to a shrunken stone. He couldn't feel enough to thrash all over the spectrum like Miles did, jump between the poles. He just wondered what was even left of him now, after everything. If there was even any value in the pits of his aging bones. Miles was a different color every minute, but Rick was never any color.

Sometimes Miles was red, like the blood on his hands, like the emergency button attached to his bed. Sometimes Miles was purple, like the track marks on his thighs. But most of the time, he was blue.

He was a sad blue sometimes, sad like the pills that were supposed to make him happy. Blue like his ruined veins. Blue like the night sky painted the snow in winter.

But sometimes he was a happy, bubbly blue. Like when the morning sun hit his olive eyes and he smiled against Rick's scrawny shoulder. He was blue like the morning sky, blue like happiness.

And then, when Miles was the happy blue, Rick was a little blue too – gray speckled with blue, or blue-gray at least. He closed his eyes, and let the blue happiness wash over him, paint him a different color.

 

_And he's blue..._

 


End file.
